Human Flower Project

Monday, August 01, 2005

Anonymous

A Human Flower Project at the threshold, the week begins with elation.

Good morning, August 1, 2005

Hitching the dogs up for our morning exit and walk is a struggle, normally. Today it was a marvel.

Just outside the door red rose petals trail across the porch, down the steps and out into the yard. Where do they lead? What do they mean? And on what planet did such roses grow, these petals big as orange peels?

Somebody made my day. But who? Kandi, an expert at surprise and beauty—Kim, the storytelling pixie—Brooks, a great gardener, who mailed me her photograph of a huge white rose—or was it Beverly of the night-blooming cereus; I know she gets up early—or David just up the block, who’s come up this trail on Halloween with his two beautiful daughters—or Margaret, another morning walker, who suggested I try a salad with dianthus flowers?

Probably I haven’t even mentioned you, mysterious friend. Please forgive me. And thank you for the wonder of your Human Flower Project. There’s power in your anonymity. These petals invoke all the generous people I know.